


close to the ground

by miriya



Series: the land between tides [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Dressing, Emotional Intelligence, Established Relationship, M/M, casual nudity, old man crushes, sending babe off to war, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 22:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15229437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: The moments that keep us moving.Cor sometimes chooses to take Nyx's little jokes seriously, and Nyx wouldn't have it any other way.





	close to the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dark_Ruby_Regalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Ruby_Regalia/gifts).



> Sorry if the rating is a little heavy. Not trying to get anyone's hopes up, but I'm also not really sure where T becomes M when it comes to dicks out. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Hold out tho, it's coming, I promise.)
> 
> Additional flavor from _Temper Trap's_ lovely song Soldier On, which feels very much a Cor tune in tone and spirit. Extra special thanks to Chase for being my muse and cheerleader, as well as my trusty beta; all mistakes are mine, but made with the best of intentions.

"Not much time left," Nyx says over the rattle of the ancient air conditioner, and lets his arm drop back down across his chest. 

Cor pauses in the doorway to the apartment's tiny bathroom, watching golden light filter down over Nyx's naked, sprawled body. It brings to mind the image of artists hunched over canvases and clay, and there's a glimmer of amusement to accompany the thought because Cor has never once been the type to consider art or its creation in any meaningful sense. But _this_? This is something different entirely; all too real and shockingly easy to appreciate in ways that leave Cor reeling sometimes, like he's stumbled on to a moment reserved -- like art -- for _other people_.

Nyx's head tilted back against the pillow exposes the vulnerable angle of his throat. The end of a thin, fraying braid lies caught in the hollow behind his collarbone, curled slightly, held there by the remains of the faint sheen of sweat dappling Nyx's skin as much as by gravity. Shadows stripe his broad chest, and where they don't, the lighter shade of sprawling scar tissue almost seems to glow in the early afternoon light. The rest of him is every bit as worthy of Cor's attention, and that amused thought doubles back on itself and leaves Cor fighting a self-directed grimace when he acknowledges that even Nyx's _ankles_ are enough to distract.

There's a fierce temptation to return to that sagging bed, to return to _Nyx_ and undo every benefit of the quick shower he's only just finished. But as Nyx had just mentioned --

"Who's ogling now, Marshal?"

Cor blinks, and drags his attention back up to Nyx's face, focusing on the flash of white teeth when Nyx grins. "Said as though you're not inviting it."

Nyx rolls onto his back and into a full-body stretch that bows his spine and arches his hips away from the tangle of bedding beneath him; Cor rolls his eyes at both Nyx and himself, as well as the answering ache inside his own body that the sight provokes -- that, too, had been a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.

"I'm always inviting, when it's you," Nyx says easily. That grin grows wider by degrees, only dulling to a look of vague disappointment when Cor takes a tentative step forward, pausing for a split-second before he commits to the action and makes his way across the little apartment to hunt down his discarded clothing.

Around the time Cor's easing back into his trousers, Nyx sits up. Swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches out a hand, fingertips only just brushing the edge of Cor's hip, a failed attempt to hook a belt loop. Cor feels his expression soften when Nyx breathes a sigh, and reaches out again with a quiet _c'mere_.

Like Nyx stated, there's not much time left. Not _enough_ , certainly, but Cor allows himself to be reeled back in anyway, promising to be the voice of reason should Nyx's mind and hands wander. Fortunately, it's not necessary; rather, Nyx curls his arms around the backs of Cor's thighs, pressing his cheek to Cor's belly, and Cor bites the inside of his cheek to fight off a strangled sound of alarm as Nyx's whiskers tickle too-sensitive skin.

After a moment's hesitation, Cor relaxes, one hand resting over the back of Nyx's neck while the other threads through his hair, carding out a few half-formed tangles before they can cause trouble. It's mad, really -- all of this, when he thinks about it: Nyx with his welcoming arms and thoughtless gestures of affection, who'd neatly dismantled years upon years of careful defenses before Cor had ever had the opportunity to voice them.

Nyx, who will leave this place for a transport that will ferry him to the front in less than an hour.

Cor doesn't worry about Nyx's talent on the battlefield. He's come close to besting Cor more than once before on the training grounds, and Cor has seen his intelligence on the field firsthand during rare joint missions. He knows that Nyx can be reckless in ways Cor remembers in himself far too well, but he also knows that his skill has thus far been great enough to overcome the trouble he brings upon himself. He is called _Hero_ by his fellow Glaives for entirely justified reasons. Whatever worry sours Cor's gut and has his hand curling protectively over the knobs of Nyx's spine lies in the fact that Cor has been a soldier all his life, and he knows that luck is as vital a possession as anything else on the field, the one thing even a lifetime of training cannot secure.

"You're thinking too loud," Nyx murmurs.

"I'm thinking," Cor lies, and there is a fondness in his voice that he refuses to temper here within these four walls, "that if you don't get in the shower soon, you might not have the opportunity for some time."

Nyx hums a note of consideration, and turns his head back and forth, rubbing his face against Cor's clean, damp skin until Cor shivers with the feel of it. "Don't want to."

"You'll regret that in a few hours, you know," Cor warns.

"But I'll still smell you on me when I finally get some sleep," Nyx says, soft and low, the sound muffled slightly by proximity. As if to reiterate his point, he presses his nose into the soft spot beneath Cor's ribcage and breathes deep. Cor opens his mouth with a perfectly reasonable retort, somewhere between _you're just going to smell like sex_ and _the rest of your squad is just going to end up smelling_ you, but he closes it a moment later, startled by how disarmingly _genuine_ it sounds coming out of Nyx's mouth.

"That's disgusting, Ulric," Cor finally says, but finds he doesn't really mean it. In response, he feels Nyx smile, and closes his eyes as something soft and fluttering shivers its way through him, something carved straight out of a work of fiction, dropped whole and fragile and defiantly alive right into his lap. It's terrifying. It's addictive -- some precious truth that demands he face his sundered defenses, pulling him down a rarer, truer avenue of thought that points out that Nyx did it easily because Cor _made_ it easy, because somewhere along the way he'd grown so comfortable in his company that he'd started looking for an excuse to let him in. 

"Besides," Nyx continues, grinning against his skin, "maybe it'll be lucky. Hey, rub some more of that immortal stuff off on me, would you?"

"I believe you'd definitely need a shower, then," Cor says, and is rewarded with muffled laughter and a faint scrape of teeth, a deliberate tease. _If only it worked that way_ , he thinks, and makes a conscious effort not to curl his grip tighter, one equal to the effort it takes not to conjure the images of those for whom proximity to him had been no protection at all. "You should probably get dressed," he murmurs, bemused and conciliatory as he leans back, making a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from Nyx's arms.

Nyx groans, but lets him go, and Cor backs wisely out of reach, snatching up his shirt on the way. "I hate it when you're sensible," Nyx says, and leans back on his hands. 

"Clothes," Cor says, and shrugs into his shirt as if to demonstrate the concept. "You have fifty-four minutes." Nyx makes a face, but catches his underwear when Cor hooks them with a toe and kicks them in his direction, grudgingly pulling them up and over his hips. His pants are tossed in his direction next, landing heavily over his bare thighs with an audible smack. _Honestly_ \-- honestly, Cor sympathizes; just the weight of that tooled leather in his hands makes Cor's skin prickle at the thought of being encased within it, despite the protective qualities.

Cor stumbles once more into recognition over just what an effect Nyx has on him: though the man is gearing up for battle, Cor's focus fractures every few heartbeats, fixating instead on just how well that leather hugs his thighs as he drags his pants up over them. Nyx casts one last longing look in Cor's direction, eyes gone soft as he shapes his mouth into an exaggerated pout that almost has Cor barking a laugh of his own, before he finally surrenders to the obvious and buttons himself up.

Ridiculous as his antics are, Nyx calms the creeping sense of dread that's starting to build as the minutes tick relentlessly down. Cor wonders if perhaps he himself has grown easier to read as he's allowed Nyx closer or if it's something intrinsic to Nyx, his own sort of pre-battle ritual. Concern or gleeful insouciance; either seems possible, depending on the moment.

"It's hardly fair, anyway," Nyx cuts into his thoughts, laughter in his voice as he discreetly checks the time.

"Your meaning?" Not a line Cor had expected to hear.

"I mean," Nyx says, and he pushes himself to his feet, two paces closer before pausing and it's funny to Cor how he seems to loom like this despite his lesser height, how his presence fills this little space until Cor thinks he could roll his very essence between his fingers. "I'm the one here putting in all the effort, when _you're_ the one who went and undressed me in the first place."

"I don't recall hearing you complain, then." 

Nyx's black t-shirt lands unceremoniously on top of his head, hiding most of his face from Cor's unimpressed stare. He grins shamelessly as he turns it right-side out and pulls his head through. "Never said I was complaining; just pointing out the facts."

Cor hums, and leaves Nyx to squirm into the rest of his shirt while he searches for the next piece. Not that there's much room here to lose _anything_ , and besides, Nyx is cautious enough with the most visible pieces of his uniform. The heavy jacket lies draped over the back of the rickety chair, despite the perfectly serviceable coatrack across the room. His vest --

Cor lifts it from where it's half-draped from the edge of Nyx's desk, brushing a faint smear of dust from silver-stained leather; some sort of paint, judging by the texture. He wonders what threads of the king's magic might have been infused into it -- what sort of protections and mitigations the Glaives carry woven through their gear. Having seen the casualty reports on more than one occasion, it seems like whatever they are, they're not enough. 

(Then again, he could say that for his own people, too.)

When he glances up, he catches sight of Nyx watching him thoughtfully. And eventually, Nyx reaches out.

But Cor steps in closer, the vest's shoulder seams aligned beneath his palms, feeling strangely serene about the liberty he's taking. As familiar as they are with one another, it hardly seems worth the thought; still, there's a sense of intimacy in this moment that he can't quite shake -- that really, he doesn't care to.

"No complaints at all," Nyx says quietly, pliant as Cor guides Nyx's arms into his vest, smoothing it over his chest with deliberate care. Cor is pleased by the compliance, even if he avoids the too-gentle look he knows Nyx is wearing as he aligns the zipper and draws it up. Well-oiled; that's good. No signs of fraying or rust. It's obvious that Nyx cares for his gear. That he takes pride in it, and what it signifies.

He wants to linger, he realizes, right around the time he's adjusting the angle of an entirely useless belt around Nyx's waist. Especially when Nyx leans in, stubble catching against Cor's sideburns as his lips brush his ear. "I can hear those gears turning, Cor. What's on your mind?"

Cor shakes his head briefly, fights down a shiver beneath the wash of hot, damp breath. "Can't imagine any of my people putting up with all this extra nonsense, is what's on my mind."

Nyx laughs. "Admit it; just because _your people_ like the business casual assassin look doesn't mean you lot don't enjoy playing dress-up as much as we do." A beat, and then Nyx pushes a finger against Cor's chest. "I don't even have to wonder who they take after, do I?"

Cor snorts as he turns his attention away, unwilling to dignify the accusation with a response -- much less acknowledge the likely kernel of truth buried there. Instead, he reaches for Nyx's heavy coat. "Two weeks, yes?"

"Unless something goes wrong." Nyx's reach upwards is aborted as Cor swats his hand away to pull his hair out from beneath the collar himself. " _Nothing's_ gonna go wrong," he says, like he can sense the depth of Cor's unspoken thoughts.

Cor's only response is a quiet hum of acknowledgement. There are loops sewn to the inside of Nyx's coat, made to connect to sturdy, thin buttons on other side; a clever way to hold the thing together without interrupting the silhouette. Cor takes his time fastening them, focusing on the difference in texture between the outside and inside of the coat, feeling Nyx's eyes on him all the while.

It helps a little, though Cor wouldn't know how to express that even if he were so inclined. To be the one to lay on these layers of armor and useless decorations with all the solemn care of a man building a wall. To be the one to reassemble the shape of Nyx Ulric as witnessed by his enemies, even though he works by memory alone. Cor reaches for the narrow length of fur, turning it over in his hands until he finds the point of attachment. It's remarkably well cared for, soft to the touch on both sides, and Cor suspects that it's hand-tanned. He's never seen that particular coloration on any creature he's encountered. 

"What is this from?" Cor asks as he reaches up to uncover the hidden clasp beneath an epaulet's rivet.

Nyx sways slightly on his heels. "Island Garula, actually; older than the ones your mainland kind took after." He grins, watching with something very much like satisfaction as Cor settles it into place. "There's a story behind it."

Cor hesitates, his fingers still buried in soft fur. As a … personal addition, of course there's meaning to it. Sometimes, he's certain there's no part of Nyx's life not steeped in meaning, in one way or another. "If you've time for all of it." Of course he wants to know. He picks up the length of narrow chain next, letting the cool steel slip between his fingers as he waits for Nyx to begin.

"Didn't say it was a big story," Nyx teases as Cor finally meets his eyes. "Our garulas aren't quite as friendly as the ones you've got here -- smaller, sure, but they'll tear you up just as bad if you're not careful. Kind of a rite of passage, hunting one down for the village."

After a few moments of further study, Cor sets the chain aside. _Not this one_. He recalls the things he'd witnessed from his brief stay in Galahd, thinks of Nyx as he must have been as a youth in that wild land, as he'd been after Regis's magic had drawn him back safely among the living: sharp and proud and fierce, going toe to toe with a furry mountain of muscle and horn with blades drawn and a wicked smile. "Alone?"

"Could've," Nyx says with a shrug. "Plenty do. I took Lib, though; figured we'd need each other if we were gonna grab the big one."

Somehow, that doesn't surprise Cor at all, though it serves as a reminder of how different Nyx and he once were. It's one of the reasons why Cor doesn't bristle at those moments when Nyx's attitude might easily be mistaken for arrogance. "Obviously, you were successful."

Nyx laughs, and waits patiently for Cor to settle his cuirass on his shoulders before continuing. "Depends on who you ask. We were happy, our folks were happy ... but the butchers and cooks complained all month about having to work with the toughest meat they'd seen in fifty years."

 _Fair_ , Cor thinks -- but obviously it had meant something to Nyx, enough to carry with him all these years. He wonders if Libertus likewise has some souvenir of the battle tucked away, but only briefly. Time is simply too precious for divided attention. Cor reaches out to smooth the fall of wyvern hide draped over Nyx's opposite shoulder. This, at least, has an obvious purpose, the dyed leather scarred and slashed from deflected attacks but still in perfectly good condition. Again, he frees Nyx's hair from the heavy weight of the cuirass's stiff collar. "You'll be due for a trim when you get back," Cor says, and rubs his fingers over the close-shorn hair above Nyx's ears.

"Well--" Nyx laughs again, softer, sounding a little embarrassed this time. "I was gonna ask for a hand, before we got, uh, distracted."

 _Distracted_. Cor supposes that's one way to describe the last few hours. "When you return, then," he says, and considers it a promise. From the way Nyx looks at him, he's certain he's not the only one.

"Maybe after a bit more distraction," Nyx says, and bends in; voice of reason or no, Cor doesn't pull away when Nyx kisses him, brief but intense, and it resonates in Cor's head like a promise, too. "Thanks," Nyx murmurs as he leans back. "Kinda nice having a sendoff that isn't a boot to the ass."

"I could do that, too," Cor replies with a quiet huff of amusement. He zips the last zipper and tightens the last buckle before any further _distractions_ surface, finally affixing the blackened chain across Nyx's chest in place -- tugging firmly to ensure it's settled. It's difficult to step back, but he does. All that's left are the gloves laid out on Nyx's desk, and though Cor picks them up, he decides to leave that much to Nyx.

"Didn't realize you'd paid that much attention," Nyx says then, glancing down at himself before he turns his eyes back to Cor, and Cor thinks that's because it's _Nyx_ that doesn't always pay enough attention.

Typical, really.

"You should know better by now," Cor says, and shrugs as he leans against the edge of the desk, slowly turning Nyx's gloves over in his hands. "Anything you need while you're gone?"

Nyx shakes his head as he grabs his boots, then sinks down into the nearest chair to get them on. "Can't think of anything. No one's threatened to burn the place down in a while, so I should be good. You're welcome to stay if you get lonely, though," Nyx lifts his head and winks, the pure suggestiveness of it startling Cor out of what takes him a few heartbeats to recognize as legitimate _consideration_.

( _Because someone's going to need to wash these sheets and take out the trash before you return_ , he reasons, knowing full well it's only an excuse to linger.)

From Nyx's wrist, a shrill alarm: only Nyx jumps, swatting at his watch as he turns an almost guilty look on Cor. "Guess that's my warning," he says, and sounds genuinely regretful.

Cor says nothing, only nods -- unsure what to say, really. He's never been good at farewells, temporary or otherwise, but in these circumstances it feels necessary to at least _try_. But he remains silent, even when Nyx stands, when he comes close and reaches for the gloves in Cor's hands.

He would have thought this easier, with time and experience. It's not that he's holding back the urge for dramatics. Nyx's hands find his own, Nyx closing in, watching Cor fumble in silence for a few heartbeats before he leans in to press their foreheads together.

Cor exhales, relaxing into the contact -- vaguely annoyed that it feels like he might _need_ it. "Two weeks," Nyx murmurs, and his eyes are glittering bright in the shadow between them, brimming with determination and unguarded affection. "I'll bring takeout, and you can tell me all the good stuff I've missed. Sound good?"

As if it's even a question.

 _This_ , Cor thinks, _is why half the Citadel is in love with you_.

Cor presses Nyx's gloves into his hands, then pushes him away gently, crossing his arms over his own chest. "Get out of here, Ulric, before Drautos shows up to drag you off by your braids."

"You wouldn't let that happen to me." Nyx sounds _mostly_ certain.

Cor arches a skeptical eyebrow, and Nyx laughs easily as he lifts a hand in farewell. Cor finds the gesture fitting enough and returns it, watching as Nyx makes his way to the door, pulling it open to let in the sounds of the busy city just outside--

"Wait." The word is out of Cor's mouth before he can catch it; barked like a command, save for a thin thread of something _else_. Nyx hesitates, one hand on the doorknob, every bit as startled as Cor feels. It feels like a coward's farewell, doesn't it? Nyx deserves better than that.

Nyx deserves _so much better than that._

There are only four steps between them. Cor crosses that distance like a man driven, and Nyx's whiskers are soft beneath his palms when he lifts his hands to cradle Nyx's face, to turn his head back and away from the world outside for what few seconds he dares. The kiss is bruising, brimming with all the desperation Cor can't crush down into words -- that he can hardly bring himself to articulate inside his own head. "For luck," Cor breathes, swallowing past the rasp in his throat.

It doesn't matter if Cor believes. He knows this for certain when he feels Nyx's lips pull into a smile beneath his own, and then Cor kisses him again, for luck, for _luck_ , before shoving him out the door. A flutter of purple silk; a flash of white teeth. The sharp glint of sunlight off the surface of wide blue eyes, softer than they should be for a man heading to war.

And then he's gone, a dark shadow passing across the face of frosted, mottled glass.

Cor lifts a hand to his mouth after he pushes the door closed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as his attention turns to the mess of blankets rolled up on the bed. He's _thinking_ \--

He's thinking that perhaps Nyx has it backwards. That if anyone is capable of rubbing off _luck_ on anyone, it's got to be Nyx.

Because in this moment, Cor believes he must be the most fortunate man in Insomnia.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, I did it again -- like Midlight, this is an out-of-time fragment of a much larger piece that's currently incomplete but definitely coming along. Originally meant as a tactile exploration of sorts because I envision Cor with a huuuge texture kink and holy shit does Nyx's battle gear provide a little bit of everything, it sort of turned on me and ran headlong down the introspective route, which felt a lot more fitting from Cor's perspective in the end.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it; thanks for reading. As always, all forms of feedback are adored. ♥


End file.
